Traveling with the Dead

Chapter Six

"My dear Asher, a terrible mistake... a terrible mistake." Dr. Bedford Fairport fidgeted with the cuffs of his gray cotton gloves and flinched away from a stout blond policeman who came through the station-house duty room with a musically inclined drunk in tow. Much was made of Vienna 's reputation as "The City of Music." Asher wondered whether this was what its enthusiasts had in mind. The drunks with whom he had shared his cell the previous night had both sung, though not always the same songs. One was a Wagnerian, the other a disciple of Richard Strauss. It had been a long night.
"Mistake, hell." Asher closed his valise, having satisfied himself that its contents- including the key waxes and counterfeit baggage-room seals in the secret pocket-were untouched. A uniformed clerk offered him a release to sign, then a paper for Fairport. "Karolyi must have seen me when I got off to telegraph Streatham in Munich. I suppose I should be glad it isn't worse."
"The honorable Herr will be staying with Herr Professor Doktor Fairport?"
Asher hesitated; Fairport said, "Yes, yes, of course. Not an imposition at all, my dear Asher," he added, as the two crossed the worn black marble floor and emerged into the chill, misty sunlight of the Ring. "In fact, since I've agreed to be responsible for your conduct, I'm sure the police wouldn't have it any other way. It will be quite like old times."
Asher grinned a little wryly, recalling the clean, small bedroom above what had been the old stables at Fruhlingzeit, the sanitarium tucked away in the quiet slopes of the Vienna Woods.
"You must have spent an appalling night!" Fairport twittered.
"Hideously irresponsible-I shall write to the Newe Freie Presse about the ghastly misconduct of the police in putting simple witnesses wanted for questioning in the general cells! You could have caught anything in that cell, anything from tuberculosis to smallpox to cholera!" The old man coughed, and Asher remembered that Fairport had had tuberculosis-and smallpox-as a child. His milk- white skin was still marked with it, like ancient chewings of mice.
He did not look well now. But then, Fairport never looked quite well. Thirteen years ago, when he first met Fairport, Asher had been surprised when Maxwell- then head of the Vienna section-had told him the doctor was only fifty- four. Prematurely stooped, prematurely wrinkled, prematurely white-haired, he had the air of an almost-invalid that Asher did not consider much of an advertisement for his sanitarium.
The Viennese apparently thought otherwise. They flocked to the isolated villa and paid huge sums for "rest cures" and "rejuvenation" by means of chemicals, electricity, and esoteric baths. Looking down now at the bent little man beside him- even straight he wouldn't have topped Asher's shoulder by more than an inch- Asher wondered if Fairport's preoccupation with reversing the effects of age was part of his fury at the encroaching dissolution of his own body.
Fairport must be nearing seventy now, calculated Asher, and forced himself not to offer his help as the old man hobbled along the pavement. His face had the shrunken exhaustion of years, his hands-encased as always in the gray cotton gloves he bought by the dozen, washed after wearing once, and discarded weeklytrembled uncontrollably. Lydia, he found himself thinking, would have diagnosed something or other on the spot.
Even under clouds, Vienna had the air of brightness he recalled; the clifflike labyrinths of buildings cream or gold or brown with their pseudomarble garlands, their putti and grimacing tragedy/comedy masks; gilded ironwork, tiny balconies, great somber doors guarding flagstoned courtyards inside.
A short distance along the Ring a smart brougham drew up beside them, the black body of the closed coach varnished and gleaming, its brass hardware polished like gold. A big man wrapped in a coachman's long coat and muffler sat on the box, frowning under a simian brow ridge while a footman, equally tall, sprang from the rear platform to open the door. Asher reflected that the sanitarium must be doing well if the old man could afford this kind of turnout.
"You'll want a hot bath and a good rest, I daresay." Fairport gestured away his footman's proffered arm with a wave of his cane. "Thank you, Lukas... I've telephoned Halliwell-he's the head of the Vienna section these days, do you remember him?-to let him know you're in town, but this evening, if you're feeling up to it, will be early enough."
Asher considered. It was mid-morning, the mists from the canal barely diffuse in the bright air. Though they stood on the threshold of winter, the cold seemed not so raw as that of London or Paris, the damp not so bitter. The air had a soft quality, like rose petals. In the Volksgarten a few hardy citizens sat behind the line of chain and potted trees that demarcated the terrace of a small kaffee haus, and Asher had a flashing recollection of true Viennese coffee and the concentrated sinfulness of a Creme Schnitten. Fruhlingzeit Sanitarium, isolated among woods and vineyards, was restful and silent but about an hour's drive from the outskirts of the town.
"If you don't mind," Asher said slowly, "there are things I need to do here. Someone I need to trace, without delay."
"Karolyi?" Fairport's almost hairless white brows formed little arches in the fish- belly forehead. "His addresses are quite well known. A town house in Dobling and a flat on the Kartnerstrasse... I assume you're not interested in that ancestral castle at Feketelo in the Carpathians..."
"No." Asher shook his head. "No, someone else, someone whose name I don't know. And it may take me a little time in the Rathaus to find the records."
He knew it would have to be done, and his mind leaped ahead, calculating how long it might take and when the sun would set. He thought he would have time to do the thing in safety, but with an almost subconscious gesture he rubbed his wrist to feel, through glove and shirt cuff, the protective silver links.
"If I may abuse your hospitality so far, I think what I need to do is, first, find myself a public bath and get cleaned up, then start my search in the records office. How late might I come out to Fruhlingzeit without disturbing anyone to let me in?"
Fairport smiled, a dry little V-shaped quirk. "My dear Asher, this is Vienna! My staff remains active until nearly eleven, and I'm frequently at work in the laboratory until midnight. Right now there's no one staying at the sanitarium-we had some electrical troubles early in the week-so there's no trouble about that."
He fished in the pocket of his old-fashioned frock coat and produced a latchkey.
"If you don't see a light in my study or the laboratory, simply let yourself in. I'll have the old room ready made up for you, the one looking out onto the garden at the back, you remember?"
Asher smiled. "I remember."
His smile faded as Fairport climbed into the brougham-the footman Lukas had to help him- and drove away into the shifting traffic of the Ring, brasses winking like heliographs.
He remembered.
He remembered sitting for hours in the window of that whitewashed room, looking down into the overgrown courtyard whose high wall formed only a nominal barrier against the whispering high-summer woods, reading over and over the three telegrams he'd found upon his return from the mountains. Remembered not wanting to know what they told him.
All three had been from Francoise, sent on successive days. All three had asked for an immediate reply. But he'd seen her at the Cafe New York-his shoulder tightly strapped and a hefty dose of Fairport's stimulants in his veins-earlier that day. She had mentioned the telegrams in passing, but said they were nothing much.
It meant that she'd been checking on his movements in the period of time in which he was supposed to be ill rather than away.
It meant that she suspected him of leading a double life.
It meant that he was a footfall away from being blown. With Karolyi returning to Vienna in a matter of days, he knew what that would mean.
She'd been perceptive enough to see through Karolyi's imitation of an innocuous young idiot. Why hadn't he thought she would see through his own impersonation of scholarly harmlessness?
He'd sat by the window until the long summer afternoon faded and the white roses on the garden wall dwindled to milky blurs, until he had been unable to read the printing on the dry yellow telegraph forms, though he had by then memorized what each had said. He knew what they meant. He knew what they meant he had to do.
He pushed the memory aside now. When he recalled Viennese coffee and Creme Schnitten, he had automatically thought of the Cafe New York. Though he guessed Francoise had not entered its doors since the summer of 1895, either, he knew he'd look elsewhere for those small pleasures.
Francoise had been right about cafes in Vienna. It applied equally to public baths. Though not as ubiquitous as cafes, they were plentiful and good for the same reason. Most apartments in the overcrowded city lacked hot water; thousands of families still relied on communal pumps in the halls, communal toilets in the courtyards. But the Viennese were a clean people, cleaner in Asher's experience than the Parisians, for all the French fanaticism about keeping their windows spotless. Certainly the jail cell he'd occupied last night had been far from the pesthole of Fairport's imaginings.
The Heiligesteffanbaden was a veritable emporium of cleanliness, and heavily populated even for a Tuesday morning. Workingmen, students, bearded bourgeoise, and stolid hofrats scrubbed conscientiously in pink marble tubs, under the solicitous eye of the usual host of marble and mosaic angels and the usual Viennese hierarchy of Herr Oberbadmeister, Oberbadmeister, Unterbadmeister, and the garzone who collected the towels. Asher visited the barber next door to be shaved, changed into the shirt and underclothing he'd bought on the way from the Prefecture of Police, paid a quick visit to a man he'd known back in '95 who cut keys, and felt much better, though the clerks at the Rathaus looked askance at his rumpled jacket when he asked to examine wills and title documentation of the older dwellings in the Altstadt. He guessed he would have enough time to do what he needed to do, if not before dark, at least before the crowds thinned from the streets.
As both scholar and spy, Asher had long ago learned that human beings reveal the true workings of their souls when their attention is on something that consumes them to the exclusion of their usual desire to make an impression on others-and that something is usually property. He had, he reflected dryly, witnessed a particularly unappetizing modern example of that very phenomenon in the wake of his cousin's funeral three days ago. In their preoccupation with who's going to get what, people forget to cover their tracks: banking records, wills, probates, leaseholds, account books can yield a startling amount of information to someone with time at his disposal and a high tolerance for dust. Asher started with the oldest palaces of the Altstadt, those exuberantly decorated masterpieces of white stucco whose baroque facades could barely be seen because of the narrowness of the ancient city's alleys, matching ownership records with wills, wills with death notices and, more importantly, birth notices; doing sums on every page of his notebook and all around the margins of the Times Personals, the only other paper he had in his valise. He found himself heartily missing Lydia, not out of romantic considerations, but simply because she was a good researcher and would thoroughly enjoy this chase. He left around two for a sandwich, but it was only when one of the several bespectacled young clerks came to his table in the reading room and said apologetically, "If it please you, Herr Professor Doktor, this building is now closing," that he realized the windows were pitch-black and that the electric lights had been on for nearly an hour and a half.
By previous arrangement, Artemus Halliwell was waiting for him at Donizetti's cafe. The head of the Vienna section was in his mid-thirties, untidy, bearded, bespectacled, and enormously obese; Asher remembered him from the London statistics department. Behind small oval slabs of glass, Halliwell's pale green eyes were like cabachon peridots as he listened to Asher's account of his journey.
"So this Farren thinks he's a vampire, eh?" Halliwell carved a neat fragment of backhendl and popped it into his incongruous rosebud of a mouth. "I suppose that's how he came into your purlieu in the first place, is it?"
Asher nodded. In a sense it was actually true.
"You get some of that in Vienna, though not as bad as Buda-Pesth. When I went west into the mountains only last year, there was a tizz-woz in one of the villages about a man who was supposed to turn himself into a wolf. I'm told in parts of the Black Forest no one will talk to you, sell you anything, give you directions to anywhere, if you kill a hare."
He dabbed his lips with his napkin and the ubiquitous Ober appeared, asking with folded hands if everything was all right.
"I think you should know," said the fat man, when the Ober had effaced himself again, "that there's been a bit of a stink."
Asher felt his nape prickle. He'd been around the Department long enough to recognize that carefully neutral tone. "Oh?"
"Streatham's doing." He made a dismissive gesture with his fork. "Naturally. Always was a bloody fool. He's made to-do about that boy Cramer's death with the French authorities, ranting about British citizens and treaty rights-just as if our offices weren't in flat violation of any treaty's assertions of good faith. The thing is, the French have washed their hands of the whole matter, contacted the Vienna police, and are demanding your return under escort on the first available train. I held them off for a day, saying I hadn't any idea where you were," he went on, raising a staying hand against Asher's protest. "But whatever you've learned today at the Rathaus, you'd probably better pass along to me."
"Idiot," Asher said dispassionately, while his mind raced ahead. It was close to eight; the streets would remain crowded enough to protect him until ten at least, possibly later, and in any case he doubted that vampires could detect an intrusive interest in their lairs from a single walk by a casual observer.
But even in a single walk-past he could tell a great deal, particularly which of the several houses on his list of possibilities was the likeliest haunt. Enough information, at least, that whoever took over wouldn't be going into the job defenseless, as Cramer had done.
"And what was it," asked Halliwell, "that you went to the Rathaus today to find?"
Asher considered for a moment, then said quietly, "Vampires."
Halliwell's tufted brows went up.
"Are there people here who believe in them?"
The Vienna chief gestured with his fork again. "There's always muttering among the Gypsies. The waiter at my cafe swears he saw a vampire on an old gate tower connected to a house in the Bieberstrasse-used to be part of the ramparts." He shook his head. "My cafe. I sound like a Viennese. Caught myself calling this place my restaurant the other day, same as I'd talk about my club at home."
"I don't know." Asher looked around him lazily, soothed by the atmosphere of the place, the slight shabbiness of the oak panels, the soft flicker of the gaslight and the all-pervasive smell of goulash, and scratched a corner of his mustache. "Isn't one's cafe here a little like one's club in London?"
"The hell it is." Halliwell surgically excised another morsel of chicken. "At a club you have a vote on who gets let in the door. Here anyone can come in-and does." He glared across at a party of uproarious young subalterns in the sky- blue coats of the Imperial-and-Royal Uhlans. "The wine's atrocious, and I think if I hear one more waltz, one more operetta, one more Mozart concerto, I'm going to open negotiations with the Turks to reinvade, and this time I'll make damn sure they win. Has Farren been to Vienna before?"
"I haven't been able to find that out," said Asher. "Not under his own name, anyway." Which might or might not be true, but was probably true enough for this century. "I have an idea he'd hide out in a house reputed to be haunted or connected somehow with... odd rumors."
Halliwell nodded, thinking, and the Ober returned with the Herr Ober in tow, to collect the polished ruins of Halliwell's backhendl and Asher's Tafelspitz, and to solicitously attempt to interest Halliwell in dessert with the air of a man who fears his client will collapse from starvation if not attended. Halliwell issued instructions as to the composition of an indianer with an attention to detail that seemed to delight the Herr Ober's soul, then turned back to Asher as the two waiters bowed and took their leave.
"I've heard of the Japanese doing that in the Chinese war," said Halliwell.
"Headquartering in haunted houses in Peking."
Asher nodded. "I was there," he said. "And yes, they did; complete with mirror tricks straight off the Paris Opera stage. It may be harder to pull off here..."
"Not as hard as you think." There was a small commotion in the doorway-two other young officers, brave in gold braid, with bright-clothed girls on their arms, and all the rowdy subalterns calling out greetings-and Asher saw Halliwell's bulging eyes cut briefly, unobtrusively, in that direction, making sure the noise did not represent potential danger. Not a reaction one would expect from a fat gourmand ostensibly preoccupied with his pastry.
His eyes returned to Asher. "There's a lot of country people in Vienna, in off the farms to the east: up-country Czechs and Hungarians and Romanians and what- have-you, come to work in the sweatshops after spending the first part of their lives, to all intents and purposes, in the sixteenth century. People who live in the Altstadt don't interfere if there's a big old palace that's shut up day after day-it's part of the neighborhood, and one would never risk incurring the displeasure of a baron. But newcomers from out of town-they get inquisitive."
"And which big old palace," Asher inquired, "are we talking about?" Halliwell grinned and fastidiously removed a mote of powdered sugar from his whiskers. "There's three or four. One on the Haarhof is supposed to be haunted, and there's a seventeenth-century palais on Bakkersgasse where people claim to have seen lights. All the Hungarian waiters in town swear the baroque palais built over the ruins of the old St. Roche Church on Steindelgasse is inhabited by vampires-it's actually owned by a collateral branch of the Batthyanys-and there's a house in Vorlautstrasse near the old ramparts where four or five people are said to have disappeared over the course of the last ten years. All of them have perfectly legitimate antecedents, by the way, winter palaces of landed families who have larger places out in the country."
"Any belonging to Karolyi?"
"I think the Bakkersgasse palais belongs to the Prague branch of the family. Not to our bird. It's a huge clan." Behind the spectacles the pale eyes danced, as if pleased he'd anticipated the thought. "Will you need help?"
Asher hesitated. The bloodied ruin of Cramer's face came back to him, glistening gruesomely in the reflected light. Gummed with blood, the silver chain had crossed the huge wounds on the throat. The shopkeeper in the Palais Royal had sworn the chains were pure silver. More likely tourist trade trash, the thinnest wash over pewter or lead. The boy probably hadn't even heard Ernchester approach.
"I haven't much to send with you," Halliwell went on. "Streatham's an ass, but he was right about that. Everything's been cut since the end of the war. Still, if you need a man..."
Beyond the gilt-framed windows of Donizetti's, passersby hurried along the pavement, greatcoats bundled tight about them. Mist had risen again from the Danube Canal, blurring the outlines of apartment buildings whose grandiose central staircases led to dreary attic rooms shared by cobblers, embroiderers, Obers, and Herr Obers and their wives and children and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all. Between the buildings the shadows lay deep in narrow passages leading to the heart of the ancient city, where sunlight fell only at noon.
One of the possibilities on Asher's very incomplete list of suspect properties was on the Steindelgasse: said to stand over the crypt of old St. Roche.
"No," Asher said softly. "No, I think I'll be all right on my own."
The palace in the Steindelgasse was typical of the great town houses of the nobility in the old city: five floors of massive gray walls, wedged between an ancient block of flats and the town palace of some count of the Montenuovo family that was illuminated like a Christmas tree for a ball. Looking up, Asher could see the tall windows of its first-floor salons ablaze with gaslight, which partly illuminated the narrow street; crystal chandeliers were visible, and a portion of a god-bedecked baroque ceiling.
The Batthyany palace was utterly dark.
Curious enough in itself, thought Asher, pausing before the heavy archway of the door. A number of the old noble families boosted their incomes by renting out the ground floors of their palaces for shops and the topmost floor or two below the attics out for flats. Certainly there were people coming and going through the great gate of the Montenuovo palais who were not of the upper crust. The other buildings Asher had looked at since parting from Halliwell, in the Haarhof and the Bakkersgasse, had been dark as well, lacking even spectral lights, and like them, this one had a slightly dilapidated air. The obligatory marble atlantes that upheld its shallow porch and heavily carved window frames were uncleaned, though Asher was interested to note that the hinges and ironwork on the door were free of rust.
The building was clearly the oldest in the street.
Hands in armpits for warmth, Asher strolled slowly past the enormous doors. It was later than he had intended to be still abroad. Fog and deepening cold were thinning the passersby and he heard eleven strike from the Domkirche a few streets away. He noted the shutters behind the windows' iron bars and the lack of recent wear on the pavement before the doors, and turned to fix in his mind the irregular shape of this narrow lane, orienting himself in the tangle of little streets that lay between the cathedral and the old Judenplatz. Within the gate would lie a broad passageway or possibly a sort of columned porch opening into the central court. Not a large one, judging by the frontage, but the building might be far longer than it was wide.
He walked on, seeking a way to circle the block. Away from the lights of the apartment blocks and the Montenuovo town house he felt his nape prickle with his old instinct for danger, but if he was going to be shipped back to Paris in the morning, the least he could do was arm his successor with some knowledge of what he was getting into.
He turned down a short lane, his boots splashing in thin puddles. The small iron lamps that burned high on the walls here were the only lights, feeble through thickening fog. He turned again, reflecting that this part of the old city was as bad as the London waterfront. Worse, in some ways, because the uniformly high walls closed in like a canyon, shutting out even the sight of spires or chimneys that could be used as landmarks.
There was no one in sight around him. He thought, Finish this up and get out. In another narrow street off Tuchlaubenstrasse he identified what he thought was the back of the Batthyany Palace, no more than a slip of older masonry between two apartment blocks set at an odd angle; there was a little postern door there whose iron handle he knew better than to touch.
A footstep splashed in water, close behind him. Asher turned and threw his back to the wall, lashed out as a dark figure laid hands on him from one side even as he heard the panting approach of another man. His fist jarred on the bony angle of a jaw. The man lurched back and Asher spun, his second attacker seizing his arm; he grabbed the man's hair with his free hand, yanked the head sharply against the stone of the wall behind him, twisted his body from the drag of the grip. At the same time, his mind registered tobacco and sweat and dirty clothes, the sound of breath and the warmth of snatching hands. Pain slashed his side even as he hooked the one man's feet from under him, slammed aside the hands clutching at his throat, smashed his fist into the other's face.
He could barely see them in the dark between the buildings, but broke for where he thought they weren't. Someone clutched the skirts of his greatcoat but couldn't hold. He fled, stumbling, bruised his shoulder on the stone of a corner, fell where his foot caught a pothole in the broken pavement. He caught himself against a wall and pain seared his side again, and he realized that one of them had had a knife.
He turned down what he thought was a lane back to the Seitzergasse, but the dirty glow from a window high and to his right showed him a blank wall. He pressed himself back into a corner where the shadows were darkest, reached to whip the knife from his boot as panting and footfalls echoed loud in the narrow space before him and he saw the blur of what might have been faces and the glint of edged steel.
Then a hand like the mechanical jaws of a trap caught him above the elbow, and another, corpse-cold and strong as death, covered his mouth. He was dragged backward, down, into damp cold that smelled of wet stone, earth, and rats, and the dim arch of paler darkness blinked from existence as the door was kicked shut.
The smell of Patou perfume filled his nostrils, covering a dim exhalation of putrefying blood.
A woman's voice said in his ear, "Don't cry out."
Asher was silent. Even if the silver protected the big veins of his throat and wrists, a vampire could still break his neck, and he knew what was in the darkness beside him.
The hands left his arm and face. He listened, wondering how many of them there were.
There was no sound of breath, of course. After a moment a silvery rustling, like infinitely thin metal fragments rubbing against each other. A woman's taffeta petticoat.
He thought, She spoke English.
Then the scratch of a match.
He blinked against the needle-bright golden light that suddenly outlined a colorless hand, a papery white face, and touched with cinnamon threads the black mass of framing hair. Brown eyes met his, reflective vampire eyes, but still the color of brown leaves at the bottom of a winter pond.
It was, he realized, Anthea Farren, Countess of Ernchester.
"I do not understand the how of it," Ysidro said.
He had taken off his gloves to deal the cards, and now he held up his hand, slender and white with long fingers like the spindles for bobbin lace. Lydia observed again the quasi-onychogryphosis of the fingernails and the fact that the musculature showed no abnormal development, though she had seen this man wrench apart iron bars.
"It's my theory that it is a virus, or more probably a complex of several viruses." Lydia sorted her cards: ace, king, ten, eight, and seven of hearts; queen, jack, seven, and ten of spades. Almost no clubs-a nine-queen and jack of diamonds. Darkness fleeted past the train windows. Around them the first-class carriage had slipped slowly into silence.
"Because the cells of the flesh are themselves altered?"
She paused, a little surprised that the vampire knew what a virus was, then remembered all those medical journals in his house. Playing cards, and conversation, had insensibly lessened her fear of him-she wondered if he had chosen the absorption of a new game for that reason, or simply because, like her aunt Lavinia, he wanted a partner for the journey.
"It's one way of accounting for the extreme sensitivity of the flesh to things like silver and certain herbs," she said after a moment. "Not to mention photocombustion."
"Do we really need to talk about this?" Margaret squirmed uncomfortably, never lifting her gaze from the flying crochet needle and the lacy snowflakes of antimacassars overflowing the workbasket on her lap. After two or three tries at learning picquet, Margaret had retreated to her needlework, fighting to remain awake so as not to be left out of Ysidro's conversation, though she had very little to add. Into the discussion of railway travel, the finer points of picquet, the mathematical odds involved in card play and the structure of music- which Ysidro understood on a level very different from Lydia 's superficial acquaintance-Margaret had interjected periodic observations that she hadn't been out of England before or that she had read of this or that monument or notable sight in a travel book or Lord Byron's memoirs.
She had tried two or three times to deflect the talk from the physical state of vampirism, but when she spoke now, her voice was low, as if she wanted to register a complaint that she didn't actually want the others to hear. Silly, thought Lydia, considering the fact that Ysidro could tell people apart by their breathing.
The vampire moved two cards in his hand, removed three and laid them facedown near the stock, replacing them in his hand with three others. "It may sound odd, but to this day I do not understand what happened to my flesh the night I was taken, in a churchyard near the river, as I was coming home from my mistress... I always had mistresses in those days. Girls south of the river, who cared not that I was a Spaniard of the consort's entourage."
He lifted the corners of two other cards and replaced them in the stock without change of expression.
"I believe that this condition is two separate matters: the matter of the flesh, which preserves the body, not as it is at the moment of death, but as it is in the mind, molding even those who are taken old back into the shape of their living prime; and the matter of the mind, which sharpens and strengthens both the will and the senses, and gives us power over the wills, and the senses, of the living."
Lydia discarded her club and two diamonds, drew another club-the eight-the ace of spades, and the queen of hearts. After four or five games in which Ysidro had systematically bested her, she was beginning to get the hang of the game, a complicated manipulation of points in which she could almost always deduce more or less what Ysidro had in his hand, though as yet the information did her little good. As a teacher, he had endless patience, gentle without being in the slightest bit kind. He had dealt with Margaret's total absence of card sense and her inability to follow or remember rules with a matter-of-factness that had, oddly enough, almost driven the governess to tears. "It is the blood that feeds the flesh," Ysidro said. "We can- and do, at need-live upon the blood of animals, or blood taken from the living without need of their death. But it is the death that feeds the powers of our minds. Without the kill, we find our abilities fading, the cloak of our illusion wearing threadbare, our skill at turning aside the minds of the living shredding away. Without those skills we cannot send the living mind to sleep or make others see what they do not see, or bring them walking up streets they would not ordinarily tread in moments of what feels, to them, to be absentmindedness." Margaret said nothing, but her needle jabbed fast among the flowery lacework in her hands.
He gathered his cards. "Those, by the by, are our only powers, Mr. Stoker's interesting speculations aside. Personally, I have always wondered how one could transform oneself into a bat or a rat. Though lighter in weight than a living man, I am still of far greater bulk than such a creature. But in the speculations of this man Einstein I have found considerable food for thought." "Do you cast a reflection in mirrors?" Lydia had noticed upon coming into the compartment that a scarf-one of Margaret's, presumably, blue with enormous red and yellow roses printed on it-had been draped over the small mirror, and the curtains drawn tightly over the dark window glass.
She recalled her own ghostly image in Ysidro's huge Venetian mirror draped with black lace.
"We do." Ysidro made his discard. "The laws of physics do not alter themselves for either our help or our confusion. Many of us avoid mirrors simply because of the concentration of silver upon their backs. Even at a distance, in some it causes an itch. But chiefly, mirrors show us as we truly are, naked of the illusions that we wear in the eyes of all the living. Thus we avoid them, for though we can still cast a glamour over the mind of a victim who glimpses us in reflection, the victim will usually be troubled-unaccountably, to him-by what he sees or thinks he sees. We are not over fond of the experience ourselves. Four for quart in spades, ten high."
They played cards until long past midnight, as the lights of Nancy flashed past the window and then the Vosges rose under their starless shawls of cloud. Still fascinated but nodding with weariness, Lydia finally returned to her own compartment, but, as she had feared, could not sleep. A little light strayed through the curtain from the corridor, a comfort, like the elephant-shaped veilleuse that had burned in her room when she was a child. Once, a shadow passed that light, and she lay awake for some time, imagining Ysidro drifting like a soundless specter along the train, sampling the dreams of the lady with the little dog, of the pair of brothers who'd asked to share the dinner table in the restaurant car with Lydia and Margaret, of the conductor in his chair and the kitchen boys in their bunks, like a connoisseur tasting different vintages of wine.
She wondered what Margaret and Ysidro had to say to one another in the course of the night.